


do the hustle

by alotofthingsdifferent



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 16:35:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4632339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alotofthingsdifferent/pseuds/alotofthingsdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he moved into his place on campus freshman year, his dad hugged him and gave him a fresh pack of cards, emblazoned with a golden “M”, and told him how proud he was. </p><p>And that was the day Nick Leddy starting hustling his teammates at poker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	do the hustle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [folignos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/folignos/gifts).



> this is all jay's fault. 
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://alotofthingsdifferent.tumblr.com) for more Nick Leddy Feels.

Nick has always been kind of a card shark.

It started when he was in junior high, learning card tricks from an older cousin in the basement of their grandma’s old house, a faded green card table propped on wobbly legs between them and the smell of mothballs wafting through the air.

“It’s easy to win once you figure out the game,” Dave told him, and Nick watched in amazement as Dave picked the card he was thinking of every single time. He taught Nick trick after trick, and it wasn’t long before Nick was teaching himself his own, grinning at his dad every time he got it right.

“If you put half as much effort into hockey,” his dad would tease, “you’ll have your pick of schools.”

There was only one school for Nick, though, and his dad knew that. When he moved into his place on campus freshman year, his dad hugged him and gave him a fresh pack of cards, emblazoned with a golden “M”, and told him how proud he was. 

And that was the day Nick Leddy starting hustling his teammates at poker.  
\--

“God damn it, Leds,” Seabs barks, throwing his cards down on the table. “I don’t know why I fuckin’ bother playing with you, you dick.”

Nick leans back in his chair and laughs, his head thrown back in glee. “Aw, c’mon Biscuit, I wasn’t even trying this time.” Brent throws a handful of bills into the center of the table and pushes his chair back.

“I’m out,” he grumbles. “This fucker’s taken enough of my money tonight.” 

“Sore loser,” Jonny calls over his shoulder, but he’s not exactly winning, either, and before long, the rest of the guys throw in the towel and leave Nick to rake in his winnings. 

“I don’t know how you do that,” Brandon says from his spot on Nick’s couch, when the rest of the guys have finally headed back to their own rooms. 

“Do what?” Nick asks. He’s still sitting at the table, facing his money, but he pauses to look over at Brandon. 

“Lure them in like that,” Brandon says, swigging the last of his beer from the bottle. “You win _every time_ , but they keep coming back for more.”

Nick tucks his winnings into his wallet and stands up, reaching for the ceiling in a long stretch. “They all wanna be the first one to say they beat me,” Nick says, and when Brandon rolls his eyes, Nick grins. “C’mon, Saader. You know it’s true. Brent would be crowing that shit from the rooftops. Tazer too. Shawzy would probably cry, he’d be so happy.”

Brandon stands, stifling a yawn. “Whatever you say, man. I just hope none of them kill you in your sleep.”

Before Brandon can leave, Nick asks, “How come you never play?”

Brandon grins over his shoulder. “I’m just waiting for the right time to make my move,” he says, and then disappears out the door.

Nick probably imagined the pink on Brandon’s cheeks when he said it. 

\--

They’re on the flight home from a long road trip when Nick pulls out a deck of cards. “Anyone up for some poker?” he asks, and he’s met with a chorus of groans from the guys around him.

“Fuck off, Leddy,” Shawzy calls from the back of the plane. “I can’t afford to gamble with you anymore.”

“I’m out,” Tazer says as he pulls his headphones over his ears and closes his eyes. 

“You’re all chickenshit,” Nick says loudly, and then looks up to find Brandon standing over the empty seat next to him.

“I’ll play,” he says softly, and Nick smiles, nodding for Brandon to sit down. “No poker, though,” Brandon says. “Just, y’know. Show me some of your tricks or whatever.”

Nick fans the deck out in front of him, runs his fingers over the top edges of the cards. “Pick a card,” he says, and Brandon’s fingertips brush his when he reaches in. 

“Don’t cheat,” Brandon says quietly, and holds the card against his chest. Nick does some fancy shuffling while Brandon watches on with amusement, and when Nick holds the deck out, Brandon tucks his card back in.

Nick waves his hand over the deck, wiggles his fingers, and taps it once. He looks at Brandon out of the corner of his eye and grins. “Pick up the top card,” he says, and Brandon slides it from its spot atop the deck. 

Nick knows it’s the right card. It’s in the way Brandon widens his eyes just the littlest bit before rolling them and making a quiet huffing sound. “How do you _do_ that?” he asks, and Nick snatches the card from his hands. 

He wiggles his eyebrow and Brandon and winks. “It’s magic.”

Brandon holds his gaze for a beat longer than he normally would before smiling back. “It’s something, all right.” He leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his stomach. “Wake me up in an hour. You can wow me with your voodoo some more.”

Nick shakes his head and shuffles the cards.

He lets Brandon sleep.

\--

A week later, they’re out celebrating a big win when Brandon slides into the booth next to Nick, warm against his side. He holds his bottle up and clanks the neck against the one Nick’s holding and grins. 

“Nice game, Leds,” he says, and he’s got that sweet, dopey smile on that tells Nick he’s had just about his fill of alcohol for the evening. 

“Thanks, Saader,” Nick says, and nudges him with his shoulder. “You holding up ok?” Brandon nods and rubs at his nose, another of his tells, so Nick finishes his beer and throws some money down for his tab. “I’m calling it a night. You wanna share a cab?”

He watches Brandon’s brow wrinkle as he considers it and has to bite his cheek from smiling at how adorable it is. (Brandon’s been doing a lot of adorable things lately. It’s becoming kind of a problem for Nick, if he’s being honest, but he’d rather lie to himself and pretend it’s nothing.)

Brandon hauls himself out of the booth and falls in step behind Nick, following him into the cab that’s already waiting outside. When they pull away from the curb, Brandon pokes him in the side.

“Guess what?” he says, and Nick tilts his head, questioning. “You’re not the _only_ one who’s good at poker.”

Nick laughs then, covers his face with his hands. “That so?” he asks, the hint of a tease in his voice. “That why you never play with us, Saader? You’re just too good?”

“I’ll be the first one to beat you,” Brandon says, and Nick’s grin widens.

“That a challenge?”

Brandon nods, leaning into him in the already-cramped back seat. “Lets make it _interesting_ though,” he says, and Nick shoves at him.

“I’m almost gonna feel bad taking your money,” he says, surprised when Brandon shakes his head.

“Nope,” he says. “No money.”

“No money,” Nick parrots, and Brandon shakes his head again.

“ _Strip poker_ ,” Brandon whispers, loudly enough that Nick’s sure he hears the cab driver snort. 

They pull up in front of Brandon’s building, and Brandon meets Nick’s eyes, waggles his eyebrows. “What’s a’matter, Leddy? Chicken?”

Nick rolls his eyes and pays the cabbie before following Brandon out of the cab. “Whatever, man. I hope you dressed in layers, or this is gonna be over real quick.”

\--

Brandon did not, in fact, dress in layers, nor is he any good at poker, facts Nick learned very quickly when he sat down and dealt the cards. Brandon squinted at his hand like it had personally offended him and promptly folded with a shrug of his shoulders.

“You didn’t even --”

“None of my cards matched,” Brandon said before yanking his tshirt up and over his head. “Deal again.”

“Maybe you want to start with your socks?” Nick suggested, but Brandon just waved a hand at him and waiting for the next hand.

Now Brandon’s sitting across from him in his boxer briefs and one sock, a red flush blooming prettily on his chest and neck, and Nick is about two seconds from swallowing his own tongue.

“I should go,” he says, looking at his watch like he really cares about the time, but Brandon shakes his head and shuffles the cards again. 

This time, Nick folds before Brandon had the chance. Brandon raises an eyebrow, and Nick shrugs sheepishly. “None of my cards matched?” he tries, and pulls his shirt off as Brandon watches him through narrowed eyes.

It goes on like that until Nick’s in the same state of undress as Brandon. They’re each barefoot now (Nick had to let Brandon lose another game or he’d probably be suspicious) and Brandon’s watching him intently, his eyes shifting from the deck of cards in Nick’s hands to his eyes and back again. “You gonna deal?” Brandon asks, and his voice sounds different, like he’s nervous.

“This is dumb,” Nick says. “We can just call it a tie, yeah?”

Brandon frowns. “No,” he says. “I’m gonna beat you, like I said I was.”

Nick hesitates for a moment, but Brandon seems dead set on finishing the game, so he deals the cards, trying to ignore the way his hands are shaking just the slightest bit.

And then, his cards are terrible.

His cards are _terrible_ , and unless Brandon’s are worse than his, there’s no way he’s winning this. He can see Brandon studying his own hand, moving a card from one spot to another, and their eyes meet over the deck. 

“Uh,” Nick says, and clears his throat. He flips the next card face up and sees the corner of Brandon’s mouth twitch before their eyes meet again. The card doesn’t help him at all, and he sighs, sits back in the chair, and throws his hand down.  
Brandon whoops and throws his arms up in victory, and Nick can’t help but smile. “Yeah, yeah, live it up,” he says. “Gonna tell all the guys about this, I suppose, huh? How you beat the great Nick Leddy at poker?”

Brandon goes very quiet very quickly, and Nick can’t read his expression. He doesn’t say anything, but Nick lost, and fair is fair, so he stands up, takes a breath, and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. He’s just started to tug them down when Brandon shouts, “Wait!”

He freezes, thumbs still at his hips, and waits. 

“I -- shit, this is hard.” Brandon runs both hands through his hair and leans forward, knees on his elbows. “I threw the game,” he says quickly. “I didn’t -- I wasn’t even trying. I’m not _that_ bad at poker. I just -- “

“Wanted to beat me,” Nick says slowly. “Like everyone else does.”

Brandon gives just the slightest shake of his head. “No,” he says, quiet. “It’s not about that at _all_.” He sighs again and stands up, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. He’s still flushed, Nick notices. He also notices how lean Brandon is, how muscular, how the dark smattering of hair on his chest matches the line of hair just below his navel. “You should go,” he finally says, and he won’t look at Nick, won’t even raise his eyes.

“Brandon,” Nick starts. “What’s going on?”

“It’s so stupid,” Brandon says, and he actually laughs a little and shakes his head. “What a stupid plan.” He’s still holding his last hand between his fingers, waving it around as he speaks.

Nick is admittedly very, very confused.

“So,” Brandon says, after a breath. “I like you. I like you, and I thought if I could just -- I don’t know, get you up here, and like, get your shirt off, I could -- “ 

Nick didn’t hear much beyond “I like you”, but Brandon’s still babbling away about plans and poker and how lame this was when Nick steps into his space, one hand coming to rest on Brandon’s arm.

“Brandon,” he says, just so Brandon will _shut up_. “Why didn’t you just say so?” 

When he kisses Brandon, he hears the flutter of cards hitting the floor, and realizes for the first time in his life, he’s the one who got hustled.

He doesn’t know what everyone complains about -- it feels pretty damn good.


End file.
